


What the Water Gave Us

by pepper_writes



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beach, Amputation, Anglo aroace trans girl Pidge, Anxiety Attacks, Australian gay Coran, Black sexuality-fluid mermaid Allura, Drowning, Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Filipino pansexual Lance, Gen, HIV/AIDS, Hawaii, Hawaiian het Hunk, Internalized Homophobia, Japanese-Brazilian demisexual Shiro, Kaua'i, Korean (closeted) gay Keith, M/M, Multi, Other, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Past gang membership, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sex Work, and now for the characters, phantom limb - Freeform, shark attack, specific warnings will be mentioned before each chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-16 11:28:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8100703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepper_writes/pseuds/pepper_writes
Summary: Voltron Beach/Mermaid AU. Shiro, an up-and-coming professional surfer and proud new owner of Black Paladin Boards, was content to forget his tumultuous past in Brazil and live out his days with his foster brother Keith in a little trailer nestled right in the heart of Hanalei Bay. But when disaster strikes and he finds his life turned upside-down once again, Shiro finds himself struggling to keep his head above water in more ways than one…





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> __  
> **FOREWORD**  
>   
> 
>  
> 
> _I’ve been lucky enough to go to Kaua’i almost every year for Christmas with my family since I was small: it’s a family tradition of sorts, originating back to when my father himself was a child in the seventies. My uncle—for whom I am named—spent the last few months of his life there when he was dying of AIDS in the early nineties, and my family and I visit his gravesite every year._
> 
>  
> 
> _The island means a lot to me: not only because of the memories and history I have there, but because being in Kaua’i has a way of putting me at ease; of letting me forget my troubles and become myself again after a rough semester has worn a part of me away. I wanted to convey how I feel when I’m there with this story, and blend a little bit of something personal and familiar with the challenge of new territory._
> 
>  
> 
> _This story will by no means be perfect: it will feature cultures, traditions, and gender/sexual orientations that I cannot claim to have intimate personal experience with, but I will do my best to fairly represent all parties and do my due diligence with research. If you find something that is glaringly out of place, offensive, and/or inaccurate, please do not hesitate to message me and kindly inform me of how to fix the error(s). If you see your ethnic and/or sex or gender identity represented (i.e. you're Hawaiian, or Filipino, or demisexual, etc.) and have a headcanon, send me a note and I'll try to work it in and will definitely give you credit. I'm always open to suggestions and opportunities to fairly represent demographics other than my own._
> 
>  
> 
> _In the wake of the ‘Dirty Laundry’ fanfic incident, I am asking for people to be kind and constructive rather than belittling and cruel: it’s honestly the least you can do given that fanfic is a free service provided out of passion rather than an intent to make profit._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _And now a note on triggers: I have anxiety (so depictions of anxiety that you see in this fic will be pretty accurate), and wholeheartedly believe that everyone should know what they’re getting into before they read. This fic will have its share of triggers (see the fic tags), and as such I will post specific warnings before each chapter._
> 
>  
> 
> _And now, without further ado, I present “What the Water Gave Us.” Enjoy!_

_CONTENT WARNINGS: Foul language_

_Mid September, 6:30 AM_

_The North Shore, Kaua’i_

 

The conditions couldn’t have been better this morning: the waves crested at six or seven feet, rolling and tumbling in neat rows parallel to the shore, the surface of the water sparkling in the daybreak. The trade winds whistled in Hunk’s ears, a mynah bird chatting along as it joined a few mourning doves on the swaying power lines, eyeing the Spam and three egg sandwich on a King’s Hawaiian roll the burly young man had clenched in his fist. He emerged from the kudzu jungle, peeling off his sandals (and the yellowed socks he’d worn underneath them) when the green below his feet became fine white sand.

 

“Doesn’t get mo’ betta than this, Lance,” he chuckled, adjusting the longboard tucked under his arm. The tourists were seldom out this early, and even most of the locals were reluctant to emerge before noon on a Sunday. He half-expected his friend to complain about the fact that there weren’t any attractive people at the beach this early in the morning (“except for _us_ , of course”), but the familiar voice did not reach his ears.

 

Hunk sighed: between stopping by the local food truck for egg sandwiches and picking up some extra surfboard wax from the corner store, their morning had been slow going. At this rate, they were never going to make it to the water.

“LANCE! Get your beanpole butt out here, man! We can’t let all the _haole_ 1 take the good spots!”

 

The leaves rustled, and a muffled whine wafted from the bushes. “Chill out, Hunk! There’s a shit-ton of broken glass and I’m not wearing shoes!”

 

Hunk sighed: Lance _would_ forget his shoes in the truck. “Do you want me to come in and help—?”

 

“No, no, I’m fine—just need to—“

 

Something in the foliage rustled, and Lance squawked as a branch sprung back to cuff him lightly in the temple. “ _Dammit!_ Ugh, _fine_ , c’mere and take my board before I fall into this mess—I can’t show up at Lihue Med smelling like bottled piss with a piece of glass embedded in my—“

 

“What, you’re afraid of disappointing the cute doctor again?” Hunk teased, slipping on his sandals again to venture back into the bushes. He grabbed the board with ease, sweeping away some of the glass with the heel of his shoe to clear a path.

 

“I would have _totally_ gotten her number if there weren’t, like, twenty other people there that were worse off than I was,” Lance mumbled, moving around the shards with guarded trepidation.

 

“Dude, you were _bitten on the ass_ by an eel: I’m pretty sure she was asking you out for seafood as a joke.”

 

He crossed his arms, pouting lightly. “A guy can dream,” he muttered, sighing in relief under his breath when his toes finally reached the sand. “Ugh, _finally_ … why did you park so far away?”

 

Hunk set down the boards, fishing out a chunk of surfboard wax “Bad news by the lot, man: the whole place smelled like weed, and I don’t want to get pulled over. Mom would _kill_ me if the fuzz found your stash in the glove box and she had to come bail us out.”

 

Lance laughed, grasping for the zipper on the back of his wetsuit. “Which one?”

 

Hunk furrowed his brows. “Which _stash_? You have more than one—?”

 

“Nah, man, which mom?”

 

Hunk sighed audibly in relief. “You know, they probably both would. Either that, or one would kill me and the other would come after you.”

 

Hunk laughed as Lance’s dark skin became a few shades paler.

 

 

\- - - - - - -

 

The pair had finally managed to suit up and wax their boards when they neared the water’s edge, surveying the waves for a good point of entry. A few surfers already dotted the surface, waiting patiently as they searched the horizon for the telltale peak of the outside swell.

 

The warm water ignited an alertness in their bodies, hearts pounding in anticipation as they fought the shorebreak and paddled into the fray. Hunk beamed, greeting familiar faces with a friendly “Aloha!” as Lance trailed lazily behind him in his wake, occasionally exchanging small talk in Tagalog with a few neighbors.

 

They were just about to get settled into a sweet spot a few dozen meters from the shore when a wall of white erupted somewhere between them and the horizon. Lance looked on in awe, wishing that at least one of them had been close enough to catch that beautiful specimen of a wave.

 

He nearly cried out in surprise when, like a bolt of lightning, a dark figure emerged from the collapsing barrel, crouching low on his gleaming white board as it shot across the water. The figure abruptly curled in and out of the wave, foam spraying in its wake, gliding across its surface with practiced ease, maintaining perfect balance even as it collapsed back into the sea.

 

“Whoa,” he mouthed, feeling his skin prickle with awe.

 

Hunk caught him ogling, chuckling to himself as he paddled closer to his friend.

 

“You’ll catch flying fish if you keep your mouth hanging open like that, bud,” he teased, splashing Lance with a quick slap to the water.

 

“Who _was_ that guy?”

 

Hunk sqinted, scrutinizing the figure. “Not sure: he’s definitely been here before, though. Seen him at Hanalei Bay at that spot by the pier a few times, too. You should ask, though: it looks like he’s coming in to shore.”

 

Lance jumped (well, as much as he could, provided that he was strattling a surfboard). “WHAT? I, uh, how do I—”

 

But it was already too late: Hunk had angled himself towards the stranger, offering his best smile and an enthusiastic double _shaka_ 2. Lance nearly willed himself to sink when the figure’s shoulders seemed to shake: was he _laughing_?

 

“ _Hunk!_ Oh my _god_ , dude, he’s gonna think we’re fanboys or something—“

 

“Not too far from the truth, as far as I’m concerned,” he stated matter-of-factly, cupping his hands around his mouth and taking a deep breath.

 

“ _Hunk_ —!”

 

“HOWZIT3?” he bellowed, beckoning him over.

 

The figure paddled closer, allowing the current to carry him the last few meters as he sat back up. Recognition dawned on Hunk’s face as the shapes of his face swam into focus: steely, slanted eyes, a strong jaw, and a faded scar across the bridge of his nose. Lance felt the back of his neck heat up as he took in the man’s deliciously broad shoulders and sculpted torso, the angles of his arms and hips standing out flatteringly against the jet black of his wetsuit.

 

“Oh hey, you’re that Shiro dude, right? The one who took over Coran’s shop recently? It’s nice to finally meet you!”

 

“Yeah, that’s me. It’s nice to meet you too,” the man confirmed, smiling warmly, if a bit shyly. _God_ , even his _voice_ was sexy.

 

Lance thought he would die of embarrassment.

 

Hunk extended a hand, which Shiro shook gratefully. “I’m Hunk, and this is Lance. We just wanted to give you kudos on the moves out there: you’re really talented! You have a sponsor lined up or anything?”

 

Shiro blushed lightly, rubbing his neck. “Thank you… but no, I’m not sponsored or anything. Just try to get out here when I can. Coran has kept me pretty busy the past few months, as you can imagine.”

 

Lance knew perhaps better than anyone: he’d apprenticed under the spunky Australian _haole_ over a summer when he was fifteen, sanding boards until his knuckles were raw and choking on the smell of uncured epoxy when his face mask inevitably slipped in the humid Hawaiian heat.

 

“Is he still an absolute slave driver?” Lance managed to ask, chuckling nervously. “I interned for him a few summers ago: the guy worked me like _dog_.”

 

Shiro chuckled. “Sounds about right: it’s good work, though. Coran’s a good teacher, and a good man. He’s done so much for my brother and me since we moved here. I actually, uh, need to get home: I promised I’d be back in time to make him breakfast, and—”

 

“Oh, please don’t let us keep you!” Lance stuttered, feeling a heat creep around his ears. Of _course_ he had to have a brother and be all domestic and adorable and—

 

“Yeah, it was really nice to meet you!” said Hunk, flashing his trademark smile. “Stop by the Hanalei Bubba’s4 some time and I’ll fix you up with the family discount!”

 

“A-and Happy Hour at Duke’s on Wednesdays!” Lance added. “We have like a gazillion beers on tap for $2!”

 

Shiro grinned, bidding the pair a good morning as he set his sights for the shore.

 

“I’ll definitely take you two up on that,” he replied, sending them both a _shaka_ as he began to paddle shoreward. “Enjoy the waves!”

 

“Oh man, he’s so _cool_ ,” squeaked Lance as soon as Shiro was out of earshot. “You think he’s into guys?”

 

Hunk rolled his eyes.

 

 

\- - - - - - - -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this fic, Hunk is Hawaiian and Lance is Filipino. They were both born on Hawai’i, and have known each other since forever. Lance has a little bit of a crush on Shiro (he and I have that in common lol), but I promise I won’t get into nasty-ass age-inappropriate Shiro x paladin shipping. Eew. Just no.
> 
>  
> 
> I’m not going to burden anyone (or myself) with poorly translated phrases and butchered pidgin, so any non-English in this fic is going to be a handful of Hawaiian terms that are commonly used in speech that I have heard over the years.
> 
>  
> 
>   1. _‘Haole’ (pronounced how-lay) means ‘foreigner,’ and is typically a term used to describe a white person or white people (usually tourists, but can also mean a white person that lives on Hawai’i). Conversely, the term ‘hapa’ (pronounced hah-puh) is sometimes used in Hawai’i to describe someone of mixed ethnic heritage (most people of Hawaiian descent are not 100% Hawaiian, so they are typically referred to as ‘hapa’), but some people consider ‘hapa’ a slur and very offensive, so I wouldn’t use it in conversation._
> 

> 
>   1. _The ‘shaka’ is a y-shaped hand sign (also called ‘hang loose’) that is frequently used among surfers as a gesture of friendliness and ‘aloha spirit.’_
> 

> 
>   1. _“Howzit?” is roughly equivalent to “what’s up?”_
> 

> 
>   1. _“Bubba’s” is an actual burger chain in Hawai’i that makes these really greasy, grass-fed burgers and every time I pass the one in Po’ipu I die a little inside because it smells so effing good. Hunk obvi works at the one in Hanalei to get the employee discount, but his main job is working at an auto body shop and on-again off-again doing online classes to get an engineering degree._
> 



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNINGS: language, blood/gore, graphic depiction of a shark attack, drowning, panic/anxiety
> 
>  

_Early October, 5:00 PM_

_Tunnels, Kaua’i_

 

Two weeks passed before Shiro had another chance to surf.

 

True to Lance’s word, Coran worked him to the bone, and the clients never seemed to get any less picky or impatient, but when their disposable income put food on the table the apprentice felt that there was very little room for complaint (besides, if he’d happened to have a few thousand dollars to invest in a custom board, he’d want it to be perfect, too). So he poured himself into his job, honing his skills and testing his limits, and at the end of a busy day there was absolutely no question that he had _earned_ this afternoon surf, dammit.

 

The water had been like a balm on his skin: cool, and clear, and just briny enough to tickle at the scratch on his cheek he’d incurred that morning when he’d shaved a bit too hastily, and the aches in his fingers and back and arms and _everything_ almost seemed to melt into the sea as the waves lapped upon him, drawing he and his board further into the surf.

 

\- - - - - - - -

 

Shiro felt as if the ocean itself were on his side as the current nudged him into the crook of a growing crest, a wall of liquid glass chasing the tail of his shortboard as his toes curled into its surface. The wind rushed in his ears, his eyes watering with the force of the gale as he kept them forward, smiling lightly to himself when he spotted two familiar figures waving at him from the shore.

 

He was rather embarrassed for himself when a pink snorkel (and the clueless tourist attached to it) suddenly appeared in his path, and he had to wipe himself out to avoid a collision. In the end he’d punched himself in the nose during the fall and was now doing his best to stem the steady flow of blood from his left nostril as he straddled his board and caught his breath, groaning as the red droplets splattered onto the clean white finish and slithered into the ocean. It was just as well: twilight was drawing nearer, and Keith would be getting home from work in about an hour, so he’d greet Lance and Hunk on his way back and promise to finally meet them for beer that weekend. Maybe he could get Keith to join them, too: goodness knows he could use a couple more friends here.

 

Giving his nose a final rinse, Shiro set a course for shore.

 

He’d gotten about halfway there when he was overcome with the sensation of being watched. It was rather ridiculous, given that Hunk and Lance were waist-deep in the water and looking at him now, sending him their warm greetings, but this was different. Uncomfortable. Shiro felt the hair at the back of his neck stand up on end, a pit settling deep in his stomach as the sea suddenly felt like a stranger.

 

Had he forgotten something? Was his wetsuit torn and exposing his body in an awkward place? Had he agreed to meet Keith at 5:30 instead of 6:30?

 

Shiro only had a split second to register the dark shape beneath his board when half a dozen rows of crooked, serrate teeth broke the surface to sink into his side.

 

\- - - - - - - -

 

He couldn’t determine whether it was the fiberglass in the board or the bones in his ribs that cracked under the force of the bite: he was numb, unfeeling; barely registering the beat of his own heart as it spasmed in alarm, and nothing could keep the air from evacuating his lungs as he was pulled under.

 

The sea ran red, but all Shiro could see was an inky, unforgiving black as he was pulled down, down, down, his limbs rubbery and limp as they succumbed to shock, pulled in and swallowed by the depths.

 

Something pink and pearly white flashed out of the corner of his eye, and then the pressure; the _pull_ was gone, and something beyond his control was guiding him to the surface, pulling his oxygen-starved body against the merciless current, forcing his lungs to expand as the sky swam into view and some force beyond his comprehension compelled him to clutch his mangled board like a lifeline.

 

His ears returned next, ringing and throbbing and _unpleasant,_ and then his nose and tongue, flinching at the sharp bite of iron and, oh god, was all of that his _blood_ —?

 

“SHIRO! SHIRO—oh—oh _fuck_ —HUNK! GET BACK TO SHORE—CAL—11—SK FOR—ND HE—“

 

He didn’t remember much after that.

 

\- - - - - - -

 

When Lance did anything that harkened back to his (admittedly rather informal) lifeguard training, he ran on autopilot.

 

It was rather contradictory, he’d thought once: anyone that claimed to know him could attest to the fact that he rarely used his brain to its fullest capacity (it was, after all, one of the reasons he’d had so many odd jobs over the years), especially when dealing with people. He was, by all accounts, the designated village idiot; the receptacle of mediocre comebacks and poorly executed complements. This was different, though, just as lifeguarding had been: one wrong move, and someone could end up six feet under.

 

He’d felt his blood turn into ice when that horrible _thing_ had emerged from the depths not fifteen meters away, and hadn’t missed the fact that Hunk had tossed his cookies straight into the water when a resounding _crack_ accompanied the cloud of entropic red that had bloomed around the ruined surfboard. It had all happened in less than a second, but he thought he’d been looking at Death itself when that massive tiger shark—a sixteen footer, at least—had pulled Shiro under. The half a dozen heartbeats that had passed thereafter had been the longest of Lance’s life, but as soon as Shiro had broken the surface again, sputtering for air and, and, oh _god_ , his right forearm was gone and the stump was in _ribbons_ —

 

It had been like whiplash: Lance had reached him in seconds, hardly hearing his own voice as he screamed at Hunk to get his shit together and call 911, trying his best to not have a complete breakdown himself as he dragged the surfer’s deathly pale body onto the nose of his board.

 

He didn’t feel; didn’t even _breathe_ as he fumbled with the surfboard leash attached to his own ankle; didn’t pause to think as he wrapped it tightly around what was left of Shiro’s elbow about the fact that he was using a piece of waterproof Velcro attached to a glorified bungee cord to keep a guy from bleeding out because his goddamned arm was severed above the elbow by a _motherfucking shark_ 1, because if he let himself slip now then Shiro would be _dead_ —

 

In moments he had somehow gotten them both to shore, practically _snarling_ as a crowd of terrified onlookers crowded around him and, and Hunk was _sobbing_ into his phone, begging whoever was on the other line to _hurry_ because he’d already lost so much blood and he needed to be med-evaced to Lihue—

 

He almost started bawling in relief right along with Hunk when a thickly accented declaration of “Let me through, I’m a doctor!” came from somewhere in the crowd, and a forty-something Indian man in purple and chartreuse board shorts pushed his way to the front, immediately turning Shiro onto his better side to elevate the severed arm. Only now did Lance see the bloody crescent of puncture marks etched into his side, beginning at the chest and trailing off at his hip.

 

The doctor said something then: it was probably in English, and might have been a complement on his quick thinking with the surfboard leash tourniquet, but the voice that sounded suspiciously like his grandfather’s yammered on in Tagalog in the back of his head: Lihue was at least an hour’s drive away, and Shiro didn’t have the _time_ ; they didn’t have a goddamned _blood bank_ for miles to replenish his starved veins, and what did it matter, anyway? He’d just bleed it all out again and stain the sand around them as red as the Kauaian soil 2, and he was useless, and _incompetent_ —

 

He felt a damp warmness on his shoulders, then on his face and chest, and it took him a moment to register that Hunk had all but collapsed into his arms, shaking with sobs and hiccups and _sorry I should have done more_ ’s—and Lance felt himself finally break down.

 

His hearing returned in full force as a shuddering, inhuman wail erupted from his lips.

 

\- - - - - - - -

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I envision Lance as someone who has had like a zillion different jobs all over the island, including as a lifeguard at the Lihue YMCA pool (which I imagine is like really close to his childhood home). Given how selfless he is in canon, I had no trouble imagining Lance completely throwing himself into saving Shiro, despite the obvious risk to himself (there is, after all, a big-ass shark still lurking around in the water…).
> 
>  
> 
> Now for some stuff on SHARKS! (because they are so cool and I feel really bad about giving them such a bad rap in this chapter):
> 
>  
> 
> Sharks only attack maybe 50 to 100 people a year worldwide, and very few (maybe, like, a dozen) of those attacks are fatal. You are literally more likely to be killed by a pig than by a shark. They may look scary, but sharks don’t intentionally go after humans: they’d honestly rather nab a seal or a sea turtle or some fish, and in virtually all cases where humans have been bitten by sharks, they are only bitten once before the shark realizes that the human isn’t a turtle or whatever and gets the fuck out.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, sharks are incredibly sensitive animals: they’re like fucknig aquatic Jedi and can literally perceive an organism’s _life force_ (i.e. the beating of their heart and the movement of their bodies) through these pits in their noses (called the ampullae of Lorenzini), and can sense even an incredibly low concentration of blood in the water from a great distance away. Poor Shiro’s nosebleed is probably what got him screwed over. Millions of years of evolution in the making, baby.
> 
>  
> 
>   1. _Shiro’s sharkbite story was heavily inspired by Benthany Hamilton, a badass surfer who survived a tiger shark attack when she was at Tunnels back in the early 2000s. Her friend’s dad saved her life by using a surfboard leash as a tourniquet to stop the bleeding. She still surfs, actually, and just had a kid last year._
> 

> 
>  
> 
>   1. _‘Red dirt’ is common on Hawai’i (especially the older islands like Kaua’i) because the soil is composed largely of iron-rich volcanic rock, which oxidizes to a rust-red color when exposed to moisture._
> 



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CONTENT WARNINGS: PTSD, description of injuries, physical aggression, language, drowning mention**

 

_The next day, 9:00AM_

_Wilcox Memorial Hospital, Kaua’i_

 

 

Three broken ribs. A collapsed lung. A torn liver. The right arm, severed two inches above the elbow. 50% loss of blood volume and the ensuing hypovolemic shock.

 

He’d technically died twice: once as the med-evac copter had passed over the Koloa Reserve, then again thirty minutes into emergency surgery. It was the miracle of miracles that he was here right now, three blood transfusions, six hours of surgery, and almost 200 stitches later, propped up at the waist with a morphine drip in his (remaining) arm and a tube in his chest, the steady hum of the heart monitor beeping in time with his pulse.

 

Keith had nearly collapsed when he’d finally been able to see his brother: he’d set a breakneck pace on his motorcycle, weaving through tourist traffic for an hour to get there, only to have to fight past a small horde or reporters to flag down a doctor that, when they finally _did_ manage to confirm him as ‘the sharkbite victim’s brother,’ could only tell him that Shiro was in critical condition and being worked on in surgery. He’d called Coran back, repeating the prognosis word for word and hanging up before the man could ask if he was okay.

 

He’d slipped into the bathroom and locked himself into the handicap stall, biting his tongue to keep himself from crying out, curling into a ball on the sterile, yellow-tiled floor and just _begging_ whatever greater force out there that would listen not to let the first person that had ever cared about him—and who he’d cared for in turn—be taken away.

 

He’d managed to stave off the tears then, but seeing Shiro now, after hours of pacing and fidgeting and groveling—deathly pale, unmoving; held together by tubes and wires and gauze and stiff, ugly surgical thread, the place where his arm should be glaringly _vacant_ — he fell to pieces.

 

Keith yelled as his fist collided with the hospital drywall, knuckles splitting and tearing under his gloves, and for a moment the physical pain outweighed the anguish, but the heaviness in his heart quickly won out, and he was on his knees, clutching his face in his hands, quivering as his body shook with sobs and hot, fat tears rolled down his cheeks.

 

\- - - - - - - -

 

Half an hour passed before he managed to gain some semblance of control over himself, and even then he still struggled to focus when a doctor—different than the one from before—had approached him, asked some questions about Shiro’s medical history, and checked his vitals. Keith felt the lump in his throat grow when she sat him down, asking him if he understood that there was a chance that his brother might not wake up. He’d nodded, too numb to fully process her words, muscle memory guiding his hands as he accepted a small pile of forms to scan and sign. She raised a brow when she saw Keith’s blood-stained fingernails as he scrawled his signature next to the flagged lines, but made no mention of it and instead fished an antiseptic wipe and some gauze from the supply counter and placed them conspicuously on his backpack as she left.

 

Another hour passed, and Keith thought he might draw the curtains and try to get some sleep instead of staring off into space and feeling _nothing_ when a commotion down the hall brought him back to partial awareness.

 

“Nah, man, we’re not reporters—Hunk here and I are dropping off some flowers—“

 

“No visitors, no exceptions,” said a gruff voice, and Keith thanked him under his breath. “The next of kin has specifically requested that—“

 

“Doctor MacIntosh!”

 

Keith felt his breath hitch as the familiar voice got louder. God _damn_ it, why did _he_ have to be here—?

 

“Mr. Irving? It’s been—“

 

“Yes, yes, _years_ , I know: what seems to be the problem here? I’ve brought the ‘next of kin’ his breakfast, and these two young men are doing their best to make sure that Shiro doesn’t have to stare at white walls while he recovers.”

 

“ _Coran_ , you know better than anyone that the visitor policy—“

 

“Is rubbish. Now let us through, or I’m going to have to ask Afi’s ghost to haunt you.”

 

Keith groaned under his breath as the Australian marched across the threshold, placing a handful of things down on the bedside table before he swung around to regard him.

 

His Hawaiian shirt was as ugly and garish as all of his others: it was highlighter yellow, dotted with pineapples and purple hibiscus, and clashed horribly with his slightly sunburned skin and fiery red hair and moustache. Seeming not to perceive Keith’s distaste, Coran gathered him into a bone-crushing hug, nearly lifting him off of the floor as he held the young man close.

 

“Keith, thank _God_ , I thought something had happened to you when you didn’t pick up your phone—“

 

He bristled, stiffening. “I was, uh, otherwise occupied,” he mumbled as Coran broke away, holding him firmly by the shoulders. Keith felt himself being given a cursory inspection, hiding his injured and behind his back and looking to the floor lest his brother’s employer see that his eyes were puffy and red.

 

“No matter, no matter…look, I wanted you to meet some blokes; they were there when Shiro was, um—

 

“Mauled by a shark?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “You can say it out loud, Coran: I’m not going to break.”

 

Coran narrowed his eyes, but excused the sass for now. “It was less for you and more for them,” he muttered, pointing behind him to the two ‘blokes’ he’d mentioned earlier. Curious, Keith peeked around.

 

They were like something out of a Disney movie: their arms were laden with flowers, so he didn’t quite see their faces until one of them whispered something to the other and they carefully readjusted their loads. One was about his height and about twice his girth and looked distinctly Hawaiian, from the tribal tattoos that came down his right arm to his warm brown skin; the other only slightly taller than himself and built like a string bean, with messy, short-cropped hair, skin fit for their proximity to the equator, and…blue eyes?

 

His eyes were blue, yes, but the dark circles beneath them…

 

“You’ll have to excuse our appearance,” said the larger one, tugging at his threadbare tank top as his companion nodded. “Neither of us got much sleep after what happened yesterday.”

 

Keith rubbed the back of his neck. “I know the feeling,” he muttered, trying to figure out why he felt so sheepish before remembering his manners and extending a hand. “My name’s Keith.”

 

“I’m Hunk,” he replied, wrapping his arm around the enormous bouquet and reaching to shake with the other.

 

“And I’m Lance,” said the skinny one, sneaking in just as Hunk pulled his own hand away. He came so close and so quickly that the anthuriums1 he was toting bobbed forward and grazed the side of Keith’s head.

 

“…a pleasure,” Keith deadpanned, slightly taken aback by Lance’s forwardness. Something lit up behind his ( _blue_ , _so blue_ ) eyes, but before he could say anything Hunk had pulled him back, sending his friend a warning look.

 

“I didn’t even get to _say_ anything!” Lance hissed, glaring right back.

 

“Don’t give me that crap, Lance, you and I know _exactly_ what you were going to say—“

 

“So Coran told me that you two were there when Shiro was attacked,” interrupted Keith, already tired of their hushed bickering.

 

They both seemed to sober at that, staring down at the ground in temporary embarrassment. “We met Shiro a few weeks ago, just as he was getting out of the water and we were going in,” explained Hunk, picking at some loose skin on his thumb. “The same thing kind’ve happened today at Tunnels: he was coming in, and we were going out; we had just gotten into the water—“

 

“Then about twenty-five yards out, the shark…grabbed him,” finished Lance, his voice hollow. His eyes were distant, unfocused; staring straight through the room to where, for the first time, he noticed Shiro, unconscious and barely moving in his hospital bed. “It was…it was horrible.”

 

Hunk nodded in assent, swallowing loudly.

 

“I’m sorry, please excuse me,” said Lance suddenly, placing the anthuriums down on the closest stable flat surface before he bolted from the room, covering his face with a tanned hand.

 

As much as he wanted to join his friend, Hunk swallowed and stood his ground, clutching the stalks of pink ginger in his arms ever tighter. “Lance was the one that pulled Shiro out of the water,” he explained. “I’ve known him for years, and I’ve never seen him more serious and focused than he was yesterday when he got your brother to shore. He’d done something crazy with his surfboard leash to stop the—the bleeding and everything, but when he got back and a doctor that happened to be on the beach took over for him, he just…I don’t know, I guess it all caught up to him at once, and he shut down.”

 

Coran placed a hand on his shoulder, consternation etched into his face. Keith looked on in disbelief: this Lance guy had met his brother _once_ , and then two weeks later all but thrown himself into _shark-infested waters_ to save his life? He either had to be a complete idiot, have had some sort of hero complex, have a… _fixation_ on his brother that trumped his instincts to survive, or some strange combination thereof.

 

That’s what Lance was: a selfless, heroic, infatuated _idiot_ with eyes that shouldn’t have been so _blue_.

 

\- - - - - - - -

 

In the end, Hunk had been the designated individual to fetch Lance so that they could all grab some brunch before they both went back to the North Shore. As he’d expected, Hunk found his friend by the nursery, smiling and cooing at babies through the window. Having been the second eldest of seven, Lance just naturally gravitated towards young’uns, as he’d had to care for up to three of his younger siblings at a time when his parents were at work. Hunk smiled, reluctant to bring Lance back to reality, but the tactic of letting his friend run away from his problems instead of addressing them did not have a brilliant track record, and Hunk would really rather _not_ have to confiscate Lance’s marijuana stash again.

 

He’d ease into this smoothly, from an angle he knew Lance would appreciate.

 

“So which one’s yours?” he asked, bumping his hip with the transfixed young man, smiling when he squawked in surprise (he was sure one of the babies laughed, too).

 

“Ah man, Hunk, is that a trick question? You know they’re all mine.”

 

“Really, now? I wasn’t aware that you had taken so many lovers back in… (he counted back nine months on his fingers) January. Lemme guess: the New Year’s party?”

 

“Hell _yeah_ , the New Year’s party,” he chuckled, elbowing Hunk playfully in the side. His smile faltered, though, when he realized why his friend was probably there.

 

“Are we leaving now?” he asked reluctantly, waving the babies goodbye as the pair walked down the hallway back to Shiro’s room.

 

“Nah, Coran’s treating us all to brunch: I think he wants to keep Keith’s mind off of things while he can.”

 

“Typical Coran,” he muttered, though not unfondly. “Did he say when the rest of Keith’s family was flying in?”

 

Hunk swallowed loudly, tugging at the collar of his shirt. “Actually, Lance…well, Keith and Shiro…”

 

Lance stopped in his tracks, his eyes bugging out of his head. “ _Wait_ wait wait wait wait, you’re not telling me that they’re, uh, ‘ _brothers_ ’, right? Like how _Afi_ and _Coran_ were ‘brothe—“

 

“No, no no,” interrupted Hunk, shaking his arms vigorously. “They’re not husbands or boyfriends or anything. Coran explained it on the way here while you were taking a nap: they’re adoptive brothers. They met in foster care in California when they were 9 and 14, and then when Shiro finished community college he adopted Keith and they saved up to move here.”

 

Lance took a moment to absorb everything. “Wouldn’t that technically make Keith his son, then?”

 

Hunk sighed inwardly. “The point is, Lance, that the only people Shiro and Keith really have are each other and Coran. That’s it. Nobody’s gonna come through the door with a zillion cousins and enough home-made _poke_ 2 for an army like they did when you were eight and almost drowned at Po’ipu.”

 

Lance stared at his friend, incredulous. “Dude, do you really think so lowly of me? You _know_ I’m always looking for an excuse to get the party platter of those little ham sandwich rolls from Costco. Keith and Shiro aren’t going to have to suffer through a single nasty hospital meal so long as we’re here to keep the mini-fridge full.”

 

Hunk crossed his arms, but the softness around his eyes betrayed his content. “Don’t try to fool me, man: you love that $1.50 hot dog and soda special more than life itself.”

 

“You’re not wrong,” he drawled, raising a finger, “But you must know that the easiest way to a person’s heart is through their stomach.”

 

His companion became serious again. “Dude, are you still trying to get into Shiro’s pants?”

 

Lance glared at him, feeling his ears turn red. “N-no…I mean, this time yesterday that would have been a complete lie, but—I don’t know! I know that we barely know them, but ever since everything happened yesterday I feel like Keith and Shiro are a part of our _‘ohana 3_ now. Something beyond our control has brought us all together, because as horrible as this whole ordeal has been something about it just feels _right_ to me, you know?”

 

Hunk nodded. “Actually, I think I do,” he replied, clapping Lance on the shoulder as they rounded the corner in the corridor, the threshold to Shiro’s room just steps away.

 

\- - - - - - -

 

“Is Hunk gone?”

 

“I think so.”

 

“How much do Hunk and Lance know?”

 

Coran sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not entirely sure, but if they know anything it isn’t much. They called me after it happened: Lance worked for me a few years ago, and I guess knew Shiro well enough to know that he is my current apprentice. He called me right after Hunk called the paramedics, and I told them to keep quiet until they were asked for an official statement. I picked them up before the press could get there.”

 

“And they didn’t ask you _why_ they have to keep everything under wraps?”

 

“I think they’re relieved to not have to tell the story more than once or twice at this point: they were both really shaken up. If they do end up asking, Agent Okeke instructed me to tell them that Shiro is trying to escape an abusive ex and doesn’t want to be found. It’s the same story we’re going to have to feed the press if we’re approached and asked for information.”

 

Keith paled. “Wait, _Agent Okeke_ called you last night?”

 

Coran nodded. “On the disposable cell.”

 

Keith swore under his breath, biting his lip. “What did he say?”

 

“A few tourists at the beach managed to take photos and post them to social media. He and his team have done their best to wipe everything, but unfortunately the situation wasn’t addressed as quickly as it should have been. He thinks that Shiro has aged enough since all of that happened that he won’t be recognizable if images of his face are released, but—“

 

“If _as Roxas 4_ are still looking for him, and they see the scar and put two and two together—“

 

The older man nodded solemnly, his eyes flicking to the entrance again. “We need to stay vigilant. Okeke sent someone to keep watch while Shiro recovers, and has informed the hospital to keep visitors and unnecessary staff out.”

 

“Okay, that might work for _now_ , but what about later? What about the press? If Shiro gets through this, it’s not like he can exactly blend right back in again!” he hissed, waving his right arm for emphasis. “He can’t spend the rest of his life with a paper bag over his head!”

 

Coran nodded thoughtfully, fishing out his phone. “I’ve thought about that,” he muttered, searching through the contacts, “and might have a solution.”

 

He found what he was looking for, instinctively smiling back at the shock of unruly auburn hair and crooked, conniving grin in the contact’s photo.

 

“Do you think Shiro would be open to getting a functional prosthetic?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N:_
> 
>   1. _Anthuriums are those red, heart-shaped flowers with the yellow cones coming out of them. Flower language typically interprets them as a gesture of hospitality, but they’ve always looked kind of phallic to me XD Ergo, obligatory gay subtext. We’ll get there, Klance shippers._
> 

> 
>   1. _Poke (poe-kay) is a raw fish dish commonly eaten in Hawai’i._
> 

> 
>   1. _‘Ohana means family, and family means no one gets left behind. Or forgotten._
> 

> 
> _(btw Lilo and Stitch canonically took place in Hanapepe, which is on the western shore of Kaua’i. The aliens just like Kaua’i, I guess)._
> 
>   1. _‘as Roxas:’ (pronounced awsh roe-shawshs [?]) Portuguese for ‘The Purple Ones.’ (I think? Google Translate is fickle. I promise I won’t be using it a lot, but I know exactly zero Portuguese and it would be weird to give a Brazilian gang a non-Portuguese name). Oops, spoilers!_
> 

> 
> _Ahem. *gets on soapbox* IT’S OKAY FOR BOYS AND MEN TO CRY. *gets off of soapbox*_
> 
> _Now that that’s taken care of…_
> 
> _Oh ho ho, the plot thickens! What are Keith and Coran hiding? Why don’t they want Shiro’s face pasted all over the media?_
> 
> _Now for some commentary from the peanut gallery:_
> 
> _Lance would do literally anything for a Costco hotdog. I think he took a job at Uber just so that he could have an excuse to drive to Lihue (where the airport and the Costco are) several times a week to get his Costco hotdog. Y’all can fight me on this._
> 
> _On a more serious note, Coran is where this story gets a little personal for me. He embodies the long-term boyfriend that my uncle left behind when he passed away from AIDS back in ’93. To my knowledge the guy is HIV-positive and is still around, and visits my uncle’s grave whenever he’s on the island._
> 
> _In this story, Coran’s deceased lover is Alfor (‘Afi’), a part-Polynesian man he met while backpacking in New Zealand after he dropped out of college (FUN FACT: ‘Afi’ means ‘fire’ in Polynesian. ‘Allira’, which means ‘crystal,’ is an indigenous Australian name. Sound a lot like ‘Allura’ to me. Hmm... I might need to find a way to work this in…). As far as I’m concerned, Coran is everyone’s uncle: he dresses atrociously, treats people to lunch, and has a really weird job. Isn’t that, like, all the criteria of being an uncle?_
> 
> _Thanks for reading and commenting! Hopefully I’ll be able to update (somewhat) regularly: I have a lot in store for you as we count down to Season 2!~_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CONTENT WARNINGS: language, PTSD/flashbacks (drowning), very mild body horror, mentions of death**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **ADDITIONAL NOTES: Prepare for mild angst, some Klance (or rather, Lance ogling), nerd children, and holiday sock discourse.**
> 
>  
> 
>  

_Mid-October, 4:30 AM_

_Wilcox Memorial Hospital, Kaua’i_

Water.

 

Pressure, entropy, foam. Blackness, swirling into his vision, pulling him under, away from the blue, away from the light.

 

Nothing.

 

…

 

…

 

…

 

…

 

…

 

_Something?_

 

Shimmering. Glittering. Radiant. Kind eyes.

 

Blue eyes.

 

 _Blue_ —

 

Shiro jolted awake.

 

\- - - - - - - -

 

_Late October, 4:00 PM_

_Wilcox Memorial Hospital_

Physical therapy had been _hell_ that day.

 

Relatively speaking, of course: every day here in this stark white building with its stark white walls and persistent sterile smell had been hell, his stump tingling, _burning_ —sitting in that awful mirror box1 for almost an _hour_ and trying to convince himself to unclench a fist that was no longer even _there_ —

 

He’d finally managed to do it, sweat pouring down his forehead and gasping for air, his heart fluttering in distress as his left fist had spasmed open. His brain had finally registered that the tension was gone, and the fiery pain had whittled down to a dull throb, pulsing weakly in his ears as he’d sobbed in relief. Keith had been there in a second, pressing a cool wet towel to his brow and rubbing his shoulder in reassurance, his concern thinly veiled behind a wall of dark locks.

 

Barely two weeks ago, Shiro had playfully threatened to trim his brother’s hair as he slept if he continued to refuse the offer while he was awake, but given that he could no longer hold a pair of scissors…

 

He sighed, glancing across the hospital room to the opposite side of the bed. Keith had fallen asleep in what looked to be a rather uncomfortable position, slouched forward in an aged chair that was as stiff and sterile as everything else in the hospital. He’d kicked off his motorcycle boots before the impromptu nap, and Shiro couldn’t help but smile when he recognized the mismatched Halloween socks (one with pumpkins, the other with ghosts) on either of his feet. He’d gotten them as a Christmas present for Keith at Walmart two days after Halloween last year, but had never actually seen him wear them until today (whether that was out of embarrassment or the lack of a proper occasion was beyond him, but he’d be sure to ask once he woke up).

 

Shiro was suddenly jarred out of his thoughts when some familiar voices filtered in from the hallway: Coran’s familiar lilt mingled with Hunk’s baritone laughter, while Lance made a noise of indignation. He supposed with a smile that Hunk was laughing about something at Lance’s expense.

 

“Coran, you _promised_ you wouldn’t tell anyone about that!” the lanky Filipino whined, slouching his shoulders as he crossed the threshold.

 

“Well, I had to give _some_ explanation as to why you’re no longer allowed to use the drive-thru at McDonald’s…oh, good afternoon, Shiro!”

 

He beamed, offering the trio a wave, his smile faltering for a split second when he realized that he was trying to wave with a hand that wasn’t there anymore. His left hand quickly compensated, but the look in Coran’s eyes told him that he’d already perceived the slip. Nevertheless, Hunk and Lance approached his bed, arms laden with yet another batch of fresh flowers to replace the ones they’d thrown out yesterday.

 

“Hey, everyone,” he replied, fumbling for the ambulatory IV drip as he hoisted himself off of the bed, suppressing a shiver as his bare feet touched the cold tile floor. A dull pain ached in his side, and his stitches pulled ever so slightly, but he managed to hold back a wince.

 

“Dude, you’re _walking_ again?” exclaimed Hunk, mouth gaping open in surprise.

 

“Hobbling, more like, but I managed to take a few steps in PT today,” he remarked cheerfully, gesturing towards Keith with his shoulder. “Little brother here finally got me off the parallel bars.”

 

Lance glanced over at Keith’s slumbering form, noticing him for the first time since entering the room. He was wearing a loose black v-neck that had hitched up just past his belly button, which he guessed was decent enough, but his _pants_ , on the other hand— _lord of heaven above_ —

 

Lance gulped, trying not to let himself dwell on how _obscenely tight_ they were, especially around the prominent bulge of his—

 

Wait.

 

Pumpkins? And _ghosts_?

 

He didn’t bother suppressing a snicker when his eyes finally found the patterns on Keith’s socks. _God_ , and they were the _Emoji_ ghosts and pumpkins, too…

 

As if he had perceived the scrutiny, Keith began to stir, mumbling something incoherent under his breath as he stretched in the chair. Lance was vaguely reminded of a cat as he reached above his head, rolling his neck with an audible crack as he blinked awake. His shirt rode up and the faint outline of his abdominals peeked through and, holy _hell_ , the v-shaped indentation that disappeared into his waistband was possibly the most beautiful goddamn thing he’d seen in his short life—

 

“Nice of you to join us, Keith!” chimed Coran, and Lance was shaken from his reverie in an instant. Suddenly cognizant of the pricking heat on his cheeks and neck, he swore in Tagalog under his breath.

 

“Huh?”

 

Lance flinched, chuckling nervously. “What?”

 

Keith rubbed at his eye. “Why are you laughing?”

 

The excuse occurred to him in an instant. “Your socks, dude,” he replied, eyes crinkling at the corners as the grin spread to cover the entire lower half of his face. “I dig ‘em.”

 

Perplexed, Keith chanced a glance at his feet. Lance almost choked on a laugh as he bristled with embarrassment, trying his best to hide his feet under the chair as Hunk and Coran looked over curiously.

 

“I—I haven’t had a chance to do laundry in awhile, okay?!” he spluttered, reaching down to tug his boots back on.

 

“Hey, man, I’m not judging!” exclaimed Lance, placing a palm on his chest. “I, for one, happen to appreciate anyone with a good, honest assortment of holiday-themed socks! Right, Hunk?”

 

The large Hawaiian turned around at the sound of his name, his quiet conversation with Shiro and Coran briefly interrupted. “Huh?”

 

“Socks, Hunk. Holiday-themed socks.”

 

The large Hawaiian looked between Keith and Lance, his gaze flicking to Keith’s feet. He tilted his head at Lance, an eyebrow arching into his hairline.

 

“Don’t you have the Christmas Emoji ones?”

 

Lance wanted to die.

 

\- - - - - - -

 

_Halloween, 11:30 PM_

_Wilcox Memorial Hospital, Kaua’i_

 

Shiro started off the day stuck in bed while a nurse spent over an hour removing almost two hundred stitches from his abdomen. He had been a nice man, chatting amiably about his wife and two kids and the Star Wars group costume they had all planned for trick-or-treating that night. It had been a nice distraction from the strange sensation of tugging and pulling that removing the stitches had created, and in the end he’d received some good tips on which products and home remedies were best for reducing the appearance of scars.

 

What had come next had been decidedly less pleasant: Doctor MacIntosh (the physician that had overseen his case when he’d been admitted just over two weeks ago) had stopped by as another nurse was preparing to change the dressings on what was left of his right arm, eager to check on the healing progress at the “surgical site.”

 

His gloved hands had been cold and scrutinizing, tracing along the fissures of the healing incisions and applying pressure every few moments. Shiro’s eyes had watered with pain as MacIntosh had tested the tensile strength of the newly grafted skin with a light pinch, spots of white flashing behind his eyelids as the nerves erratically fired off in their confusion. He’d been so nauseous from the ordeal that he’d refused lunch, opting instead to shed his hospital gown, put on a pair of shorts and a light t-shirt (it had taken maybe ten minutes with just his non-dominant hand to work with, but he managed just fine), and pace up and down the hallways with the ambulatory IV trip rattling in tow beside him. His healing ribs ached with every step, but the discomfort was temporarily forgotten when a troop of children—all between the ages of six and ten, by the looks of it—zoomed past him, racing two of their friends in wheelchairs as they screamed and laughed. Shiro smiled, moving to the side of the hallway when the party about-faced and flew back in his direction. They crossed a line in the tile, slowing down to catch their breaths as he curiously looked on.

 

“Leena and I _totally_ won that round,” said the eldest. She smoothed out the wrinkles in her green dress, readjusting the crown on her head as she smirked at the other pair.

 

“Nuh- _uh_! Kobe and I beat you by a long shot!” exclaimed one of the boys, indicating the length with his hands. The child in the wheelchair nodded vigorously, the blue paint on his bald head shining under the fluorescent light. The boy pushing his chair looked like he was wearing hospital scrubs with white trim, and had his hair in a ponytail.

 

The other girl—Leena—made eye contact with Shiro then.

 

“What do you think, mister?” she asked, rubbing her feet together in the seat.

 

Shiro scratched his head. “Well, I couldn’t see that well from here,” he replied nervously, chuckling under his breath when all four of them seemed to deflate rather dramatically. “But I couldn’t help but notice how awesome your costumes are! Are you guys going trick-or-treating tonight?”

 

Kobe’s brother sighed. “Kobe’s getting his chemo this afternoon, and he usually doesn’t feel to well afterwards,” he muttered, crestfallen.

 

Shiro felt his stomach drop. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he replied sincerely, eyebrows knit together in concern. “But I’m sure you’ll collect enough candy for the both of you, right?”

 

“Actually, we’re all gonna stay and watch _Avatar_ tonight,” piped in Leena’s sister. “It’s Kobe’s favorite, see? We dressed him up as Aang for Halloween!”

 

Shiro grinned: the outfits suddenly made a bit more sense (even if the ‘arrow’ on Kobe’s head looked more like a scribble). He hadn’t been able to tear Keith away from his computer when he’d screened the entire series on Netflix a few years ago, and had even conceded to sit down and watch a few episodes with him when his schedule permitted.

 

“You must be dressed as Sokka, then,” he replied, enjoying the way his face lit up at Shiro’s acknowledgment. “And you girls must be Katara and Suki?”

 

“See, I _told_ you that Suki could wear a dress!” exclaimed Leena’s sister, putting her hands on her hips. Kobe’s brother huffed, sticking out his tongue.

 

“So which part of the series are you guys on?” asked Shiro, silently praying that he’d remembered enough of it to have a coherent conversation with them.

 

“We’re on _The Blue Spirit_ right now,” said Kobe, his eyes alight with interest.

 

“That’s one of my favorites: Zuko is my brother’s favorite character of, like, all time.”

 

“But he’s such a meanie!” said Leena, crossing her arms.

 

Shiro chuckled. “I’m sure you’ll warm up to him in time,” he said enigmatically, offering them a wink. “Now what do you say you four do a rematch on the race, and I’ll be a good judge and actually pay attention this time.”

 

Of course, one race had turned into six, and it didn’t occur to him until later that night that he’d managed to laugh for the first time in more than two weeks without chest pains.

 

\- - - - - - -

 

_Early November, 12:00 PM_

_Wilcox Memorial Hospital, Kaua’i_

Lance and Coran had shown up the next morning, toting a 37-pack of candy bars from Costco and a plate of lasagna that Hunk had whipped up the day before. When Shiro asked why the lanky Filipino was wearing knock-off Ray Ban sunglasses indoors, Coran muttered something about chocolate milk vodka and Jello shots under his breath, and recommended that he ask Hunk when he arrived tomorrow if he cared to know more.

 

They’d eaten lunch in relative silence, chatting amiably about what had been happening in Hanalei since Shiro’s absence. According to Lance, Tunnels had been closed for three days following the incident, and helicopters had routinely scanned the waters early each morning before the beach was opened to the public. Just as things had begun to calm down again, a couple of anglers had reeled in three tiger shark pups, and it had been the only thing that the local paper had talked about for _days_. Shiro flinched when Coran fished out the paper, the cover emblazoned with a pair of _haole_ toting their catch, but didn’t consider himself to be truly uncomfortable until he read the headline.

 

“‘ _Mini Man-Eaters Found Looking for Seconds Near Tunnels_ ,’” read Shiro, squinting to make sure he’d read that right. “Are they _serious_?”

 

“You know how people get around here,” Lance grumbled, staring down at the paper in dismay as he chewed on a breadstick. “People are so starved for gossip that you can’t even pass gas without, like, _half the island_ knowing within the hour.”

 

“Well, when precisely half of the island is doing their holiday shopping in Walmart on Black Friday and you eat an entire tub of hummus the day before, what do you expect to happen?” remarked Coran pointedly, not looking up from his crossword.

 

Lance snorted, but gave Shiro a significant look. “Don’t tell Hunk we told you,” he whispered, shrinking into his seat. “He’s still really embarrassed about it.”

 

“I’ll avoid the subject if it ever comes up in conversation,” Shiro remarked dryly, but a smile betrayed him.

 

“Still, though,” Lance continued, fiddling with a few loose threads on the hem of his shirt as he glanced at the paper again. “It just seems…I dunno, _wrong_ to rip an unsuspecting baby animal out of the ocean just so you can stuff it and mount it on your wall,” he muttered. “I’d understand if you were gonna eat it or whatever, but this seems downright cruel.”

 

Shiro sighed. “I don’t think people are going to be as receptive to the idea of catch and release when it comes to sharks after what happened,” he replied, eyes flicking to his bandaged stump.

 

Lance blanched, spluttering. “I mean— _shit_ —I didn’t mean that—“

 

“No, no, it’s okay,” said Shiro, resting his hand on Lance’s shoulder. “I was angry at first, but after I did a little bit of reading and research I realized that it wasn’t the shark’s fault: from its point of view I probably looked like a monk seal when I was paddling on my board, and the nosebleed I got when I ate it on that last wave was probably what attracted it to me in the first place. I also learned that most shark attack victims are only bitten once: they realize that you’re not what they’re looking for and just swim away.”

 

Lance seemed to sigh in relief, rubbing the back of his neck. “Glad to know I’m not the only one around here who watches Shark Week,” he mumbled sheepishly. “I mean, they scare the _crap_ out of me, but all the things that make them such effective hunters—their countershading, the streamlined shapes of their bodies, the whole sensitivity to blood, and man, their _teeth_ —that’s what makes them so _cool_.”

 

“Not to mention,” piped in Coran, munching on his second or third snack-sized pack of peanut M&Ms that day, “that sharks play an important role in the ecosystem as apex predators. Without them, the ocean would be far too crowded and full of sick fish. The Gunderson-Holt Oceanography Research Institute2 base up on the North Shore has a lovely little exhibit in their lobby all about it.”

 

Lance’s eyes widened in recognition. “Holt-Gunderson? Isn’t that the family you babysat for a few years ago? I remember seeing pictures of their two sons on your work bench…”

 

Coran smiled wistfully. “Yes, Matt and Caleb, though the latter prefers to be called Katie now…such darling kids. Practically raised them.”

 

Lance paled. “Wait… _Matt_ Holt-Gunderon?” he asked softly, eyebrows furrowed in consternation. “I didn’t realize…oh, _Coran_ , I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine—“

 

Shiro felt the familiar lump settle in his throat: it had been almost a year since he’d found Coran on the floor of the studio, curled into a ball and shaking like a leaf. The landline phone had been discarded on the floor, the flat dial tone punctuated only by Coran’s heaving sobs.

 

That morning they’d all been told that Matt and Dr. Holt had been presumed dead after they and their ten-foot research skiff had disappeared without a trace during a routine water sample collection. Forty-eight hours of searching had yielded nothing, and the phone call had been the final blow to Coran’s already fragile state. Shiro recalled that his employer had barely eaten or spoken for the better part of a month; how he’d seemed to age several years in the span of a few days. He’d recovered some of his youthful glow back since then, but Shiro remembered what he’d lost every time the stripe of grey hair behind Coran’s ears seemed to get thicker. It still stung every time he glanced at that photo of the Holt siblings near his bench, their beaming faces fading more and more as the paper became bleached by the sun.

 

“I’ve made by peace,” said Coran, though his voice cracked with ill-concealed pain, “but your condolences are appreciated, Lance. Katie and her mother have been so strong through all of this…that girl, she’s got such a bright future ahead of her, working with machines and robots like no one I’ve ever seen. She fixed my sander when she was _eight_ , and she managed to improve its performance, too! I really should visit them again soon…”

 

Lance brightened. “She’s into tech?” he asked, eyes wide. “She’d get along real well with Hunk!”

 

“Maybe we could all pay the Holts a visit in the next few weeks,” suggested Shiro, offering a shy smile. “Keith and I’ll bring _pupus_ 3.”

Coran beamed. “I’m sure they’d love the company,” he assented, pulling out his phone to type himself a quick reminder. “Now there’s just the issue of when Shiro is going to get out of this horrid place…”

 

\- - - - - - -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _A/N:_
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> _Sad Holts are sad. ;_______;_
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> _Avatar references all around because I can. And of course Keith had a total Avatar phase when he was younger: Zuko was probably his first cartoon crush tbh_
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> _No matter what AU he finds himself in, Shiro will always be a Dad_  
>  _TM. (and it seems like he’s always suffering, too, the poor soul ;__;)_
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> _Lance isn’t allowed to use the drive-thru at McDonald’s anymore because he thought he’d surprise his then-girlfriend (who worked the drive-thru window at the time) by driving through while she was on shift. Bare-ass naked. It didn’t end well._
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> _And yep: Lance has a cruuush~ He’s also a bit of a perv (“What can I say? As a beautiful person, it’s my job to acknowledge other beautiful people.”). It’s a weakness, but he’s learned to not say anything if he perceives that it would make someone really uncomfortable…or mad. (Sad headcanon time: Lance used to be even more openly flirty around other men, but unfortunately not everyone is as accepting as Hunk. We’ll get to this later.)_
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>   1. _A mirror box is a kind of technique that is sometimes used by doctors to treat amputees with phantom pains (really nasty sensations that occur at the amputation site, which can include burning pain or the sensation of clenching). The principle behind the mirror box is that if there is visual perception that a limb is unclenched (in this case, Shiro’s left fist reflected to appear as if it were his right fist), then the clenching sensation will cease._
> 

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>   1. _As far as I know, there isn’t actually a research institute on Kauai’s North Shore. Whatevs. In this fic, Pidge’s father is a world-renown oceanographer and climate change specialist that established a small facility to conduct some research on how tourism and other anthropogenic impact has affected fragile reef ecosystems. Again, this will be explored a little bit more later._
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>   1. _‘Pupus’ (poo-poos): Hawaiian for ‘appetizers.’_
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> _Thanks for your comments and support!_


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